Knife in the Night
by MewWolf5
Summary: John and Sherlock are after a criminal in the night. The criminal pulls out a knife and a fight ensues between him and Sherlock, John forced to watch.


Once again, they were running through the darkened streets. John was just barely keeping up with Sherlock, who in turn was barely keeping up with the criminal. They turned a corner and the criminal stopped, turned around, and pulled out a knife. John would have bumped into Sherlock after the sudden stop if the detective had not lunged forward, pulling a knife out of his coat. John realized that Sherlock had deduced this man's weapon of choice and come prepared.

For a few moments, John stood there in shock as he watched the knife fight, Sherlock managing not to get critically stabbed while still getting cut, one particularly bad slice cutting through the sleeve of his coat. Then John was interrupted, a presumed henchman of the criminal pouncing on him out of nowhere and sending him down onto the ground.

He shook off the impact and swung at the man's face, then took the spare moment to scramble back to his feet before the henchman threw another punch. John could not dodge completely, receiving a glancing, but still powerful, blow to the mouth. It was a struggle, but he managed to get the man out cold.

By the time he had regained his balance, the knife fight was nearly over, Sherlock having sustained more injuries and not doing as well as he had at the start. Finally, the man moved so that Sherlock leaned forward off-balance in response, then kicked the detective square in the knee. Sherlock's legs buckled and he fell to the ground. The criminal ran into the night.

Sherlock, breathing heavily, heaved himself off the ground, his right hand clutching the knife and covering his bleeding arm. He began moving with surprising quickness for someone with his injuries, but his limp was very obvious. Despite this speed, he was not going anywhere fast. The criminal would have been long gone by the time Sherlock had gotten to the next corner.

"Sherlock!" John called out. When he didn't stop, John shouted the detective's name again, this time louder. Still nothing. He ran up to the taller man and grabbed ahold of him, trying to pull him to a stop. Sherlock resisted.

"You idiot," John groaned. "You'll never catch him like this."

"I'm still walking," Sherlock retorted, his breathing still laboured.

"Barely," John said, finally wrestling Sherlock to a halt. Perhaps it wasn't only John's force, but the fact that Sherlock knew he would be even slower with John holding him, or that the truth of his flatmate's words reaching him. Sherlock let himself sink down onto the pavement.

"We'll get him later," John said, though he knew the words wouldn't provide much consolation.

When Sherlock was on his knees, he was actually shorter than John. With this loss of stature, he lacked his usual presence. John had never seen him this vulnerable before, all cut up.

Sherlock turned to look directly at John. Even his eyes betrayed the pain he had been trying to hide and the defeat he didn't want to acknowledge. Sherlock had never looked this scared. It was at this moment that something swelled inside of John. He pulled Sherlock close and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

"I was so scared," John said, not letting his grip weaken. "I didn't know whether you'd make it."

Sherlock didn't return the gesture, but he didn't push John away either. They weren't sure how long they stayed there, but eventually John released Sherlock from his arms, and eventually the police came to retrieve the one man they had gotten, and the ambulance arrived too, John given a blanket for shock and Sherlock's wounds treated. His coat was ruined, his shirt as well, both of them torn and blood-stained. They would have to be mended if not replaced. John was sure that Sherlock would not want to part with his beloved coat, despite the fact that the sleeve was nearly falling off.

Luckily, Sherlock did not have to stay at the hospital overnight, but he was thoroughly bandaged nonetheless. He had dressings on the wounds on his arm, face, and torso, and a cloth brace on his injured knee. The nurse informed John on what he could help with during the healing process, how long it would take, and what would need to be replaced.

Sherlock probably spent one of the longest nights in his bed in recent memory, exhausted by the night's events and needing to heal. Mid-morning the next day, John greeted him as he limped into the room before sitting down at the table across from John.

"You're up, finally," John said quietly.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied curtly. John smiled slightly at the fact that Sherlock was clearly not harmed enough to lose his attitude.

"I'm glad you can walk."

"John, he only kicked me."

"Do the other wounds still hurt?"

Sherlock didn't respond right away, clearly deciding whether he wanted to reveal what he was really feeling. He averted his gaze, looking down at the table.

"Terribly."

They sat in silence for several minutes, John frowning at what Sherlock had imparted to him, even though he knew it was true before the words left the detective's mouth, his flatmate's body language making the pain clear.

"Sherlock," John said abruptly, breaking the silence. Sherlock looked up from his tea, his light blue eyes piercing into John's vision. "I really was scared for you last night. I thought – I thought you'd die. And even when you didn't, it hurt to see you in pain. I know you'd probably say that's ridiculous, but it's not. You're my best friend and it hurt to see you like that. I don't know what I would have done if you were no longer here with me."

John looked straight at Sherlock, the pain he had been speaking of becoming even clearer from the look on his face. He saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth turn up slightly.

"I know," said Sherlock. "You're my best friend, too, John."


End file.
